The Accidental Honeymoon

Chapter Eight

The smell of maple syrup hits my nose before any of my other senses have chance to wake up. My ears soon follow, although the plane chatter is slightly muted, which means my ears must need to pop. Finally, I open my eyes slowly, just as I hear Jack roaring with laughter next to me. That’s when I realise that, at some point while I was asleep, I must have rested my head on his shoulder.

I sit up quickly, wiping the little bit of drool from my chin before he notices.

‘Having a lovely time?’ I ask sarcastically.

Jack notices me out of the corner of his eye and removes his headphones.

‘Huh?’ he asks.

‘I said, are you having a lovely time?’

‘Oh, you bet,’ he replies, smiling widely.

Jack is sitting comfortably, watching one of the in-flight movies while he tucks into a breakfast of French toast and bacon, covered with lashings of sweet-smelling maple syrup. His choice of tipple for washing his breakfast down? A glass of champagne, no less – not his first, I’d imagine, given how funny he’s finding this movie about a talking horse detective – Prancing Justice III.

‘You want a drink?’ he asks.

‘Not for a long time,’ I reply. ‘Y’know, lest I do something stupid like get married again.’

My husband laughs wildly.

‘You know what, I have a good feeling about this,’ he says.

‘That’ll be the champagne,’ I reply.

‘No, I’m serious. And it’s not just about the money – the money helps, don’t get me wrong. It will keep me going until I find another job, but… I don’t know. I don’t really have any family left so I don’t get invited to big family events like weddings.’

I pause for thought. When I moved to the States for uni, the truth is I couldn’t wait to leave life in Lancashire behind. I grew up in a small town just outside Blackpool, where everyone knew everybody’s business, and no one really had much going on. You’re born there, you grow up there, you marry someone from there and then you die there, leaving your kids to follow in your footsteps. I never wanted that to happen to me, so I got out of there as soon as I could, and avoided coming back like the plague. Sure, I’ve visited home over the years, but since John came on the scene, I’ve seen less and less of my family. The last time I visited, everyone was on my case about why I hadn’t brought John to meet them (I think my auntie might have been peddling a theory I’d fabricated him). The truth is, I was embarrassed. John is from a very well-off family and everyone in his line of business seems to be cut from similar cloth. He’s quite serious, bordering on stuffy sometimes, and I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t a snob. Taking him back to the town I grew up in, showing him the three-bedroom semi I lived in with my blue-collar dad and dinner-lady mum… It’s not that I’m ashamed of them, it’s just… I worried John would love me less if he knew where I came from. I know what you’re thinking: how did I manage to keep who I am from him? Well, let’s just say that even though I’m not a successful actress, I’m still a talented one.

‘Coffee then?’ Jack persists, snapping me from my thoughts.

‘Please,’ I reply.

As Jack calls over an air hostess and orders my drink, I examine his body language. He’s not like John at all. He’s so cool, with his relaxed demeanour and easy, charming way with everyone he speaks to. He reminds me of how I used to be, or how I thought I was, at least. The day I met John I was on my way back from an audition for the role of a rich, suburban housewife. I’d wasted a lot of time and a lot of effort on a lot of failed auditions, but I still wasn’t ready to give up, so I decided to take the clichéd, ‘dress for the job you want’ advice and wore exactly what I imagined a snooty housewife would wear. Turning up in the type of outfit I usually wore, like a plaid shirt-dress and pair of Converse teamed with bright-red lipstick and too much eyeliner, wasn’t going to cut it. From my pastel lemon twinset to my pearls, to my minimal make-up and newly trimmed bob, I looked nothing like myself and everything like the kind of girl who would catch John’s attention, it turns out. I was walking down the street, the weight of the world on my lemon-clad shoulders after yet another rejection, when a man sitting outside a café struck up a conversation with me.

‘How can someone be so sad when it’s so sunny outside?’ he asked me from over his cappuccino, which, I suppose, is just a posh person’s way of saying ‘cheer up, love, it might never happen’. As we sat and chatted I learned all about the kind of person he was, and having realised it was the temporarily classy-looking me who’s caught his eye, I kept the image up when he asked me on our first date, and then our second, and then it just stuck. Dating an orchestral pianist, going to his performances and the swanky events that go with them, hanging around with his fancy friends… I had to keep it up, or I never would’ve fitted in. His friends would mock girls in yoga pants and boys in flip-flops, and I would keep my head down, my mouth shut, and the door to my flat full of offending outfits closed, because I loved John, and I wanted his people to accept me.

Around the time I met him, I was starting to consider whether or not I should move back home. Not just because I missed my family, but because things weren’t really working out for me career-wise. Not only did he convince me I should stay because he’d help me find work (he’s worked on a few movie scores and said that he could introduce me to the right people in the industry – although that never happened), he promised me we’d start our own family someday.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this right now; I should be filling Jack in on all the info he needs to pretend to be my elusive fiancé. It used to really upset me he wouldn’t let me put things on Facebook – I thought he was ashamed of me. But right now I couldn’t be more thankful, because the fewer people know about him, the fewer facts Jack and I will need to stick to. We can ad-lib the whole thing, and there will be no one with a dated timeline of information to fact-check any of it.

I explain to Jack that no one knows too much about John, so it shouldn’t be too hard for him to keep up the act.

‘So, you’re an orchestral pianist,’ I remind him. ‘We live together in LA but you travel around a lot for work, and most of the time I go with you. I work different temp jobs, so it’s easy for me to take time off. I’m between jobs at the moment.’

‘Pretty sweet life you’ve got going on,’ he observes through a mouthful of breakfast.

‘Had going on,’ I correct him. ‘So, you love classical music, pop culture makes you angry, social media makes you furious—’

‘Do your family know this stuff?’ he interrupts.

‘They know he doesn’t have a web presence. Well, I mean, they’ve noticed he doesn’t.’

‘Do they know he’s boring and kind of a douchebag, though?’

‘He’s not…’ I jump to John’s defence then wonder why I’m bothering. ‘No, they don’t.’

‘Cool, so I can reinvent the guy, make him seem like you have better taste.’

‘Must you?’ I ask with a slight whine.

Jack laughs as he polishes off the last of his meal, washing it down with the last of his champagne.

‘So, what kind of temp jobs do you do?’ he asks.

‘Erm, this and that. Office jobs, dog walking, marketing…’

‘Is that what you wanted to be?’

‘I wanted to be an actress – I still do. Things got put on hold when I met John. He was just so busy with work, and he was already established so…’

It always sounds like an excuse, when I say it out loud.

‘How did your parents feel about you moving thousands of miles away to become an actress?’

‘Well, I moved away for uni, so they were happy I was studying. And they’re happy I’m happy there with John – was happy,’ I correct myself. In the midst of all this make-believe, I mustn’t forget what has actually happened. Life as I know it is over.

Jack rubs his chin thoughtfully.

‘You got brothers or sisters?’

‘Two brothers,’ I reply. ‘Olly, who is a couple of years older than me. He’s like the model son because he’s got a good job and a house and a pregnant wife. Then there’s my little brother, Jacob, who’s currently studying for his A-levels. He’s eighteen.’

‘That’s a bit of an age gap,’ he observes. ‘So, he was how old when you moved to the States?’

‘My parents had Olly and me in their early twenties. My mum calls Jacob her “little surprise”, which I think means accident,’ I laugh. ‘He can’t have been more than nine or ten when I moved out.’

‘Would you say you’re close with your family?’

‘OK, now you’re just being nosey,’ I say with a laugh. ‘You can’t possibly need to know that.’

‘Just wondering,’ he replies.

I’m definitely the unremarkable middle child in the Parker family. They think Olly is wonderful because he got a steady job selling double-glazing, a house, and a wife – and now he’s got a bun in the oven, he’s flying through the motions, just as my parents hoped he would. The thing about Olly is, he was always the most popular guy in school, and he always found it effortless to wiggle his way out of trouble – as far as my parents are concerned, he can still do no wrong. Even now we’re adults, he still tortures me and teases me in the way siblings do. Jacob is Olly’s opposite; he’s very quiet and keeps himself to himself. Studying is his number-one priority at the moment, and it’s hard to tease him for it, really, because he gets results. It seems like the As come easily to him, but I know he studies hard. Still, I wish he’d let his hair down a little bit sometimes. I suppose, because I moved away when Jacob was only ten years old, we haven’t really spent much time together.

‘Do I have any siblings?’ Jack asks me.

I stare at him for a moment, wondering why he’s asking me, before I realise he means the role he’s playing.

‘Oh. No, you’re an only child.’

‘Well, that won’t be hard to fake,’ he says with a slight laugh. ‘I’m an only child.’

‘This is going to be OK, isn’t it?’ I ask him anxiously.

‘Sure. It’s just a week,’ he reminds me. ‘We get on OK, don’t we? Weddings are always fun. I’m still a bit freaked-out about being married, but we can fix that as soon as we’re back.’

‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘It will be fine.’

A jolt of turbulence hits the plane, as though to remind me journeys don’t always run smoothly.

‘I need to stop at a store and grab a toothbrush and change of clothes. I only got on the plane to convince you to get off. Are expenses covered on this trip?’ he asks with a cheeky laugh.

‘I suppose I can’t expect you to fork out for an outfit for a wedding,’ I reply. ‘And you’ll need clothes while you’re here – that hadn’t crossed my mind. I’ll pay for them out of my half, but you have to let me pick them.’

‘You worried I can’t dress myself?’ he laughs.

‘No,’ I reply, pausing to think about a polite way to say this. ‘But, if you’re pretending to be John, you’re going to have to… adjust your look.’

Jack runs a hand through his hair.

‘What’s wrong with my look?’

‘Well… it’s just… it’s a bit scruffy.’

‘Scruffy?’ he echoes, his voice significantly higher than usual. ‘How am I scruffy?’

I examine Jack’s outfit. He’s wearing grey baggy trackies, resting low on his hips, teamed with a tight-fitting vest top and matching hoodie.

‘Well, I mean, look at what you’re wearing. You look like you just got out of bed.’

‘I look like I just got out of bed because I just got out of bed,’ he reminds me. ‘I woke up, realised I was married and that my wife was about to literally take off for ever on a plane, so I grabbed the nearest items of clothing and my passport, and headed for the airport.’

‘Oh,’ I reply. It’s not even that he doesn’t look good – he looks great. The hardest sell of our little lie is going to be convincing people I could pull someone so far out of my league. The problem is, he doesn’t look like a boring John, he looks like a cool Jack. ‘Your hair and facial hair might be a problem, though.’

‘I’m not cutting my hair,’ he says insistently. ‘It’s my hair that helps me pick up chicks.’

‘Speaking as a chick, I can tell you it isn’t your hair that helps you pick up chicks,’ I admit. ‘It’s the fact that your biceps are thicker than my waist.’

Jack wiggles his eyebrows, clearly only taking the compliment from what I just said.

His light-brown hair is only a couple of inches long on the sides, but it’s way longer on top, and right now he’s got it swept to one side, falling down to cover an eye on one side. He’s constantly sweeping it away – and it’s bizarrely sexy to spectate – but, again, it’s not the right look. Neither is his trendy short, well-groomed beard.

‘You don’t look like you’re part of an orchestra,’ I point out. ‘You have to look smart and polished. We don’t need to cut your hair, we just need to slick it back. You do need to shave, though.’

Jack frowns, but his face softens after a few seconds.

‘Who are your mom and dad, the King and Queen of England?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Are you royalty?’

I exhale deeply

‘You need to be what they’re expecting,’ I reply. ‘Or this doesn’t work. And if it doesn’t work, you don’t get your $10k.’

‘You drive a hard bargain, princess,’ he submits. ‘OK, fine. I guess having a shave and using a bit of hair gel is a small price to pay for ten grand.’

‘Thank you,’ I tell him sincerely. I know exactly what it feels like to be dressed in clothes you’re not used to. I feel two kinds of uncomfortable – firstly because I’d got out of the habit of flashing flesh, and secondly because this outfit is so very, very tight.

I adjust myself in my seat a little, trying to get a bit more comfortable. Jack might be finding flying for the first time fun and exciting, but I’m sick of these long-haul flights. My family might drive me crazy, but I do miss them, so if I want to see them, fourteen hours on a plane is the quickest way. I suppose I could move back home, now John isn’t in the picture any more. As I’m creeping up on thirty, it feels like I’m too old to break into the acting scene now, but I feel equally too old (and too embarrassed) to move back home with no fiancé, no money and a useless acting degree. I’d be starting from scratch, from the point most people are at when they hit their twenties. I might feel like the unremarkable middle child now, but to give in to that, everyone would see me as such a loser…

‘I can’t believe I’m married,’ he laughs. ‘Never even really had a serious girlfriend.’

‘You’ve never had a serious girlfriend?’ I reply in disbelief.

There’s a telling glint in his eye. Obviously he’s not the dating kind, just the hump ‘em and dump ‘em kind. He’s probably broken the hearts of so many tourists. I suppose working in a hotel full of ladies looking to have a good time makes pulling pretty easy – why would he tie himself down?

‘Excuse me,’ a young air hostess says to get our attention. She places two slices of sweet-smelling, delicious-looking red velvet cake down in front of us. ‘These are for you guys. We know you’re newlyweds, so it’s to celebrate that, but also because we appreciate you didn’t go back to the toilets together.’

She giggles nervously as she flutters her eyelashes at Jack.

‘Aw, thanks,’ he tells her before turning to me. ‘Isn’t that sweet?’

‘Thank you,’ I tell her, the smell of the cake causing my appetite to come creeping back up on me.

‘I could get used to this,’ Jack laughs, tucking into his cake.

‘Don’t,’ I reply, a little too quickly. ‘It’s just a week.’

Chapter Nine

It had occurred to me Jack was taking this whole real marriage/fake relationship for money thing quite well, but I figured it was just because he was a really easy-going (recently unemployed) person. But I’ve been waiting outside the men’s toilets for half an hour now, and I think he might have done a runner.

I gave him two bags to take into the loos with him, one containing several items of smart-casual clothing and another with toiletries. I bought disposable razors and shaving gel, which made Jack wince when he saw them because, apparently, the proper removal of a beard requires an electric razor – something I couldn’t get in any of the airport shops. That said, I didn’t look too hard, because this is coming out of my share of the money, and I’m technically unemployed, too. He should think himself lucky I didn’t just give him one of the razors I’ve brought to keep on top of my leg-hair growth while I’m here. I didn’t cheap out on the clothes, though, I dashed through the clothes shops and picked appropriate outfits straight off the mannequins, so Jack would be smart and on trend. It’s going to be uncharacteristically warm here – even for June – so I made sure I bought things that would be weather-appropriate as well as ‘I’m definitely a refined gentleman who plays piano in an orchestra’-appropriate.

I got him everything he could possibly need, so why hasn’t he come back out?

I pace back and forth outside for a few more minutes before a middle-aged man in a suit comes walking out. He’s glancing around, as though he’s looking for something. When his eyes land on me, he walks over.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, in his Queen’s English accent. ‘Georgie, is it?’

I nod.

‘Ah, well, there’s a gentleman in the toilets asking for you. He wants you to nip in and see him.’

‘He wants me to go into the men’s loos?’ I ask in disbelief.

‘Indeed,’ he says, clearly stifling a chuckle. ‘He said you’d probably refuse, but that I had to tell you he’s not coming out. Ever.’

Oh my God, he’s like a child. I thank the man, exhale deeply and dash inside. Obviously, because we’re in an airport, the toilets are quite busy, and each man greets me with an awkward, uncomfortable gaze.

‘You’re, er, in the gents’, love,’ a man points out, as though I hadn’t noticed.

‘Cheers,’ I reply.

I have to admit, it’s nothing like I thought it would be in here. The place is absolutely packed with men, rushing around, brushing their teeth and getting changed. For most, my presence here isn’t startling; they’re in too much of a hurry. It doesn’t smell like I expected in here. It’s unpleasant, for sure, but I expected it to smell like pee instead of the cocktail of strong cleaning products and mixture of deodorants and aftershaves that permeates the air.

I glance around the crowd for Jack – doing my best to avert my eyes from the urinals – but he’s nowhere to be seen.

‘Jack,’ I call out, quickly losing my patience and raising my voice. ‘Jack!’

‘In here,’ I hear him call back from inside one of the cubicles.

‘What’s the problem?’ I ask, leaning towards the door.

‘I look like a dick,’ he calls back.

‘Do you know how much those clothes cost me?’ I ask angrily through the door, but he doesn’t reply. I try a softer approach. ‘Can I see?’

‘Is it still busy out there?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’

I hear the sound of Jack unlocking the door before it opens just enough to allow a person through.

‘Quick, inside,’ he insists, pulling me through.

Jack exhales deeply as I look him up and down. He’s wearing one of the outfits I gave him, and he’s clean-shaven (but with a piece of tissue stuck to the edge of his sharp jaw where he must have nicked his skin) and his hair is slicked back, just like I told him. He looks so different. Younger and more polished.

‘You look good,’ I tell him. Well, he does.

‘I look stupid. My cheeks look fat without a beard, not to mention I no longer look thirty, I look about fifteen. And this outfit – where do I begin?’

I shrug my shoulders. It’s smart and fashionable. I have no idea what his problem is.

‘Did I sail here on my yacht?’ he asks sarcastically. ‘Blue and white pinstripe shorts and a matching blazer? You’ve gotta be kidding me, princess.’

The buzz from outside the cubicle dies down.

‘People come and go in waves, we’re probably safe to step outside for a minute,’ he tells me. ‘Soon as the next rush of people comes in, I’m coming back in here.’

Once we’re out of the cubicle it’s much easier to look Jack up and down properly.

‘You really suit your hair like that,’ I tell him honestly.

‘It’s not the hair that bothers me,’ he replies. ‘It’s this sailor-boy get-up. No offence, but everything in these bags sucks.’

I am entirely offended. So much so, I start riffling through the bags to prove to him everything in here is stylish and cool.

‘That outfit you’re wearing is straight off a mannequin in Jack Wills,’ I inform him. ‘There is no denying they’re cool. Ditch the blazer if you don’t like it. You look good in shorts and even you can’t take issue with a white shirt.’

‘Why don’t I just put that navy jumper on that you bought me?’ he suggests. ‘Oh yeah, because it’s summer and boiling outside and I’d literally die.’

‘It’s not for wearing, it’s for draping,’ I tell him patronisingly, although it does occur to me that someone not so into fashion won’t appreciate that.

Jack stares at me blankly for a second.

‘I have no idea what that means,’ he tells me.

‘Here, put these on,’ I instruct, throwing him a pair of navy-blue chinos. ‘These with that shirt will look good.’

I walk over to him and gently pull the piece of tissue from his chin before placing my hands lightly on the sides of his head to smooth his hair down.

‘Could I almost pass for a gentleman?’ he asks.

‘Did you just quote Titanic to me?’ I reply in disbelief.

‘You think I haven’t seen Titanic? It’s a classic,’ he insists. ‘So, could I almost pass for a gentleman?’

I smile.

‘Almost.’

He laughs as he heads into the cubicle with his trousers.

He’s no sooner closed the door when the next surge of travellers pours in. The first few do a double-take, the sight of a woman tricking them into thinking they’re in the wrong place.

‘This is the men’s toilets,’ one man points out to me.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ I reply, making no attempt to move.

The man frowns at me so I tap on the cubicle door.

‘Jack, let me in,’ I beg. ‘I’m not getting the warmest welcome out here.’

‘Just let me put my pants on,’ he replies.

‘Just until the crowd clears out, then I’ll sneak out,’ I plead.

A few seconds later the door opens.

‘Wow, you look great,’ I tell him, a little taken aback. I can’t help but notice he hasn’t zipped up his trousers yet – probably because he rushed to let me in – so I keep almost uncomfortable eye contact with him. He’s right – the pinstripes were a bit much.

‘I feel less uncomfortable in this,’ he replies. ‘Kept the boat shoes on, though. I’m assuming your royal family lives on a boat?’

‘Far from it,’ I laugh. ‘It’s a semi.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s cold in here,’ he jokes as he does up his trousers.

‘Hilarious,’ I reply sarcastically, although I have to admit he is pretty funny.

‘Look, can we head back into the clothes store and find something we can both live with me wearing? Marriage is all about compromise, you told me that.’

I can’t help but laugh again.

‘OK, sure.’

The buzz of the travellers dies down again. Now is my time to sneak out without a scene.

I’m just about to open the door when I hear a single set of footsteps approach the cubicle door. Seconds after the steps stop there’s a knock on the door.